


What Fate Decreed

by WordsCharacterPlot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mainly just Natasha though, Natasha Romanov Feels, One Shot, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Vague allusions to the movies, WinterWidow Always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsCharacterPlot/pseuds/WordsCharacterPlot
Summary: They told her the mark was a curse. The words would be spoken by the one meant to destroy her. It was a brand, a blemish, a marring of the skin. They taught her that the word made her weak, but should she destroy the man first, she would be stronger because of it.





	What Fate Decreed

They told her the mark was a curse. The words would be spoken by the one meant to destroy her. It was a brand, a blemish, a marring of the skin. They taught her that the word made her weak, but should she destroy the man first, she would be stronger because of it.

Natalia Alianova Romanov is one of 28 girls in the Black Widow program. She is one of three others in the program to be marked. The Red Room didn’t tolerate weakness. The other two girls with marks were gone within the month. But Natalia remained. She trained harder, determined to show no weakness in this brand. She traced the word that danced along her ribcage over and over, the unfamiliar alphabet and name. 

_ James _.

So American. She scoffed at the idea of an American besting her. It would not happen. She was sure of it. She graduated despite it. Top of her class. Twenty-eight dwindled to four. On one of her first missions, she shot a man without hesitation, his name only half spoken. 

Her trainers praised her instincts, despite the cost of the mission, of a competent soldier. His name was Jacques, not James. But in the instant the hard consonant fell from his lips, Natalia reacted. Had he truly been a competent soldier, he would have survived. That was her excuse. Still, they did not punish her too harshly, and that was a praise all on its own.

She was given more assignments after that, extending her reach farther and farther. Then one failure and she was brought back for training, for recalibration. Her bones ached and muscles screamed, but she endured it.

“The Soldier will oversee your retraining and your next mission.”

The Soldier was a ruthless machine, never speaking to her but communicating exactly what he expected her to do. He was everything the Red Room aspired their Widows to be. Natalia was left in awe.

Her training was the shortest yet. Another Widow was lost in that time, the remaining three punished for their sister’s failure. She did not scream or cry. She was Natalia Alianova Romanov and she was the greatest Widow.

The mission with the Soldier utilized both their skills, his as sniper and hers as distraction. She would prefer to do it alone, but that was not an option given to her. Still, as partners go she had little to complain, he remained silent and on task. His efficiency and skills awakened feelings of respect and awe that she had never before experienced. Feelings were a fault. Love is for children. 

And they led to her second failure as a Widow. 

“We have enough to strike tomorrow,” she said, filling the space between them. His cold stare was a bit unnerving sometimes and she wasn’t entirely certain his arm was the only part of him cybernetic. “Don’t forget our passports and IDs for the border cross. I’m not hiking through mud.”

She flipped open his ID out of curiosity. They hadn’t given her his cover information. She needed to know. Natalia would end up compromised if she wasn’t aware of it. 

“Vasily,” she murmured frowning, “I know they are random, but I wouldn’t peg you as a Vasily.”

He grunted, drawing her attention. His eyes were a little less cold and brow furrowed. Metal fingers twitched for a gun and she reached for hers slowly. 

“Soldier?”

He shook his head and met her gaze for the first time, confusion and pain etched in them, “James.”

Her heart stopped and the gun clattered to the floor. Words she didn’t know she held were pulled from her, “You’ve doomed us both.”

And just like that, they went from beautiful, efficient machines to broken, flawed humans. He touched his metal arm in wonder, just on the star, as if something of significance once stood there. Warmth spread from his eyes to his muscles, relaxing and humanizing him. He met her gaze, haunted, but free.

“You know, I thought that’d be said a little differently.” His drawl was unique, drawing from a culture she wasn’t familiar with. American, but more than that. It spoke of a neighborhood, of a family, of a missing life. She shook her head, stepping back towards the door, hand on her knife. 

“Natalia,” he murmured, holding his hands out slowly, studying the metal arm in fear and awe, ignorant of her panic. Why did her name on his lips sound so right? “I’m in Russia. I….I am the Winter Soldier.”

He shook his head, wavering between two people, two pasts. His anguish and frustration made her step forward. Whether the brand on her skin or her own unraveling, she felt compelled to soothe his fear, “You said your name is James? You have a mark as well?”

She lifted her shirt to show hers, the mark now silver instead of black, another reminder of her failure. It would burn away at his death. She was assured of it. Yet her knife remained hidden.

His eyes lost focus for a moment and he touched the red star again, “Used to. Told….told a punk I couldn’t wait to meet her. Couldn’t wait to meet my soulmate.”

Their eyes met and panic set in. Soulmate. That was never the word they used. The brand was a mark of the destroyer. Whoever spoke the word would be the one to kill her, to break her. And had it not? He still breathed. Yet he looked at her as a star, in wonder and joy and emotions she never dared dream of.

Suddenly she was moving about the room, searching the well stocked safe house for makeshift tools, then laying them out on a table by hot water and cloth, “We must hide it and then we will continue our mission.”

He frowned, “Or we get the hell outta dodge.”

“Soldat,” she snapped, regret barely registering in the back of her mind at his freeze, “They will kill us. You do not forsake Mother Russia.”

“Natalia.” It was a growl now, bordering on a command. She lifted her chin in defiance. “They do not own you. They do not own me. I am not going back. I ain’t even Russian.”

She held out the needle and ink, “Do it or I will do it myself and leave you to the mercy of the handlers.”

Failure was not an option. Failure meant the chair. Failure meant retraining. Failure meant pain and blanks and static. Slowly he took it from her hand, not hiding his displeasure or reluctance. Pulling off her shirt she lay on the table and stared at him til he moved. His hands grazed her ribs and unknown desire battled through her. How quickly did the Black Widow fall.

He worked silently, slowly, covering the elegant script in black ink, returning it to its former state. Ice slid away from him until he was sweating when he was done. Questions burned her lips but never passed. The Soldier was simply that. A soldier. A faceless tool like they were, to be used for the good of the Red Room.

The man now before her was not simple or faceless or even an effective tool at the moment. Whatever broken at her words had broken him. He was even allowing it. He was weak. She would not be so weak. 

He grabbed a bag and slung it over his shoulder, looking at her in desperation of a drowning man, “You’ll stay?”

“I am not a traitor. I am not weak.” She wiped at the bit of blood from the needle’s prick.

He nodded, “I’m gonna take a perimeter walk. I’ll let the sentry know and confirm my check in.” A small mercy. She would not be the last to see him, her punishment would be less, “We’ll see each other again.”

She offered no promise or hope, but witnessed his departure as a statue, cold, lifeless, detached. The word along her ribcage burned.

Despite her success in the mission despite a missing partner, her return to the Red Room was one of disgrace. She was fallen. Not quite blacklisted, though the deaths of those who last saw the Soldier were a reminder of how close she had come. She was a tool. Only useful if effective. Too many failures, too many retrainings, and she would no longer be worth the effort of fixing.

Natalia knew it was only a matter of time before she was given a mission to take care of her. She was one of two Widows now. They kept her merely as a spare. It took a couple years, but she earned the right to go out on solo missions, no longer a risk, and the first ounce of freedom she had, she used to search the term soulmates.

_ They do not own you. _

His words haunted her. Even now. So she searched the term he gave her, delved into sickeningly sweet stories of people meeting and falling in love, pulled apart the science behind the mark, dug more into the stories that ended in despair. The more she read, the more she came to a single conclusion: her handlers were correct, this mark would destroy her.

It had already begun. All the research showed a change in thought pattern after the first connection. Once the words were out, there was no turning back. Disastrous attempts were made and all more horrendous than the last. Whether she liked it or not, she and James were now tied together. She would never be the perfect weapon, the creature she was made into.

“You know, some say you can feel your soulmate.” Natalia tilted her head at the elderly woman, a knife already in hand at the potential threat. She did not seem to acknowledge how close she came to dying, but continued as if wanted, “I’m guessing you haven’t met him, dear. But don’t fret, he’ll show up.”

She closed the book she was reading and disappeared from the library.

Her doom came in the form of a mission, as it had with all the others. She was not meant to survive this one, but she took it anyways. Part of her wished they had sent Yelena after her. At least then, she would have a challenge, a poetic death. Instead she will be carted off to be burned with the trash.

_ They do not own you. _

She went on the mission, fighting tooth and nail, using every weapon she had. It was not enough. 

Laying in a cell where each breath felt like the last, Natalia focused on her training, the survival instincts too strong to lay back and take the death they wished upon her. She was fire. She was poison. She was steel. The world was hers to take and mold and bend to her will. And with those fortifying thoughts, she slipped into the void.

Only to be awoken by him. James. Her soulmate. 

“Natalia, hang on.” He undid her restraints, metal arm tearing through them like paper, then lifting her up. She would have protested had the ability to talk not been too much. Darkness consumed her, but her heart steadied, a comfort she never knew settling deep within her bones.

When she woke up again, it was in an unfamiliar house, covered in bandages, alone. She tested her muscles, training dictating her reactions. She had to know how hurt she was, how quickly she could get her hand on a weapon, how far she could run if needed. All in all, it was bad. There was a knife and gun left on her bedside. That was her only comfort. Throwing the knife wouldn’t be an option. A gun would run out of bullets eventually. 

Then James entered. Training had her recoiling at his metal arm and graceful movements of a killer, instinct had her relaxing, as if drugged. 

She didn’t know how to handle the light that entered his eyes when seeing her awake. That was not the norm. She drained life out of men, not put life in them. 

He walked slowly, measured, sitting in a chair far enough away to provide some measure of comfort. He was wearing clothes to detract from his lethality, jeans and a shirt. Still, she kept the gun in her hand.

“Gotta say, not how I wanted our second meeting to go.” He smiled, easy, calm, more settled in his skin than the last meeting, “Probably should’ve figured.”

Lying on a bed in front of anyone was not an option, even armed and with her soulmate. Despite her protesting body, stitches pulling and broken bones groaning. James twitched, the urge to help, to push her down, clear on his face. Her eyes narrowed in challenge, “Why am I here?”

“We had intelligence of the banker. Didn’t know it was you he was holding. Once I did, wasn’t gonna stop until you were out.”

That wasn’t what she was asking, they both knew it. She pursed her lips and forced herself to ask again. This time, he slumped slightly, “Natalia, they threw you out like yesterday’s news. You’re worthless to them, but not to me. Never to me.”

The declaration was uncomfortable, unwelcome, but not untrue. She settled on what she could wrap her mind around, “They do not own me.”

That lifted a smile from him, “No. They don’t.”

She met his gaze, eyes hard as emeralds, “You do not own me either.”

His smile grew soft, fond, rather than hard and cruel, and erased years from his face. Having such fondness and love directed at her left Natalia feeling unsettled and out of balance. His response even more so, “You’re free Natalia.”

Why did her name sound so right on his lips? What was it that made all of her training seem obsolete in his presence? How did he make her feel as if she could finally be herself? As the questions swirled, he stood, slowly to allow her time to adjust.

“This is a safe house, off books and fully stocked. Whenever you’re ready, here’s my contact. Encrypted number on the back.” He slid the card on the table then moved to the door. “Don’t keep me waiting too long Widow.”

Then he was gone, leaving the skin along her ribs burning beyond the wounds inflicted. 

Natalia spent three days at the safe house, the whole time waiting for snipers or soldiers to burst in. None came. The card he provided held a logo and a name. James Buchanan Barnes. It swirled in her mind and found a place in her newly freed heart. Each heart beat whispered the name and asked the questions she refused to acknowledge. It left her confused and uncertain. She hated that. To counter, she fell into the training and ensured the people who made her this way, the ones that left her to die, would rue the day they took in little Natalia.

When she left the ruins of the Russian agency, she took contracts. All she knew was to kill and extract information. More, she enjoyed certain aspects. The look of men staring flabbergasted as she took their life, after they were so certain they caught her, fueled a fire within her that warmed her on the coldest nights. 

It was never to last. 

The people who sought her skills were far from honorary. She made new enemies every day and crossed them off just as quickly. It was a matter of time before they caught up with her. Natalia was growing tired as well. Tired of killing, tired of running. Tired of doing only what training taught her. Could life be found outside the Red Room?

That was when Clint found her. 

Natalia was not an idiot. She recognized the logo as the one on the faded card, given to her years ago now. She knew who this assassin worked for. Did he know her soulmate?

But the unthinkable happened. He didn’t take the shot. He held out a hand instead. The first in so long. The first with no bond between them, simply a man who had seen too much offering a lifeline like the one he was offered. For the first time since black turned silver, Natalia allowed herself to hope and to dream. She took his offer. 

She threw herself at the mercy of the American covert agency. She paired with Clint and went on missions. Natalia became Natasha. She found opinions and choices and life outside the mission. She relished in the choices before her. 

She never saw James.

Despite knowing that he worked for the same company, he never once showed himself and she never asked Clint. The mark along her skin burned and each day chipped away at the reluctance to find him, to seek him out. She had close calls in missions, but it was always Clint coming to her rescue. A vacuum opened in her life and she ached for it.

Then Clint was compromised and the careful world she built was crumbling around her. The director sent her for the Hulk, showing just how bad this was and her fingers were dialing the number before she truly let it sink in.

“Hello?” His voice was groggy, reminding her of the time difference. One word and her heart sang. She hated it.

“Crawl out of whatever hole you’re hiding in and meet me in New York tomorrow morning. 0900.” She hung up and retrieved the physicist with anger issues for Fury. Natasha couldn’t remember the ride home. She didn’t remember the quips she traded with ease and familiarity to the man. She didn’t remember the odd looks she got from the crew.

That all disappeared seeing him on the flight deck.

She still knew Clint was in danger and the man she owed her life to was closer to death with each second she wasted. She wasn’t that far gone. But seeing James, leaning casually next to Captain America, squinting in the morning sun, lifted something within her. He caught her eye.

The first time they met, neither were entirely human; a man broken, his past crushed into dust, and a fractured woman, childhood ripped away. Uttering those words unlocked her undoing, but it was also Natasha’s saving grace. Now, they may still be broken, but Natasha knew she could stand tall and face this unknown with strength and pride. She was proud of who she built herself to be, away from the possible influences of a soulmate.

Now she was ready to face what fate had decreed.

His face twisted into a smirk as he pushed off the plane, allowing her to approach. 

“James,” She said as casually as possible, taking in everything he had to offer, hearing the whir of his arm. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You’ve doomed us both,” he said with a wink, “And let me tell ya doll, I’ve been looking forward to it.”


End file.
